


he left me here alone

by foxtrot12



Series: bmc (mainly boyf riends) [8]
Category: Be More Chill, Be More Chill - Iconis/Tracz
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt, M/M, Self Harm, crying michael yoooo, minor tho like scratching sorta stuff, this is just sad michael and jeremy is a dick
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-13
Updated: 2017-05-13
Packaged: 2018-10-31 05:36:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10892799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxtrot12/pseuds/foxtrot12
Summary: everything is closing in on michael god he can barely breathe he can barely think straight.  good thing jeremy will always have his back... right?





	he left me here alone

_ Bang bang bang! _

Oh God, go away please, please,  _ please. _

_ Bang bang bang!  _

Take a breath, holy shit, just breathe.

_ Bang bang bang! _

Look in the mirror, God, you're pathetic.  How can you even see through those puffy eyes?

_ Clang clang clang!  _

Splash some water in your face, hide those ugly tears.  

Michael turned to the door, his head still pounding, his breathing still uneven.  He knew if he didn't stay focused, he would start sobbing again.   _ You're worthless.  _

No, no, no, don't think.  Focus, breathe.  

With a shaky hand, Michael went to reach for the door, but he couldn't hear knocking anymore.

Half relieved, half disappointed, Michael let his forehead fall against the door with a loud, harsh  _ thud.   _ Tears began to slide down his cheek.  No wonder why Jeremy left him alone: he's a  _ pathetic crybaby _ who can't even bring himself to leave this dumb party.  He wasn't even  _ worth  _ Jeremy's attention.

“Stop it,” Michael choked out, his voice barely above a whisper.  “Stop, please,” he sobbed, screwing his eyes closed.

Sinking to his knees, all Michael could hear were his sobs.  Even though they were quiet, suppressed, they still drowned out all the shouting and thumping music on the other side of the door.  His hands curled into fists, his nails digging into his palm.  

It stung.  

It stung so bad but he couldn't bring himself to uncurl his fists.  

His arms; they stung, too.  The feeling was new: a dull sort of throbbing just below his elbow.  

Opening his eyes to look, Michael noticed for the first time four little crescent marks on each forearm.  Blood had swelled in the wound, threatening to slide down his arm if the wound was disturbed.  

Michael had been so consumed with his panic attack that he hadn't even realized he had cut himself while squeezing his arm, just like he had been doing with his palm.

Hesitantly, Michael returned his nails to his arms.  Letting out a quiet sigh, a dull pain shot throughout your arm.

“You're pathetic,” Michael murmured, his eyes still wet.  “Why didn't you see this coming?  Jeremy has moved on and I don't blame him.”  Michael's lip quivered.  “He wouldn't have left you if he cared,” Michael sneered, nails digging further into his skin.  He knew he should try to divert his focus to something,  _ anything,  _ else, but he just couldn't bring himself to stop.

Michael felt blood underneath his nails.  Shaking heavily, he pulled his hands away from his arms, wincing at the loss of pressure.  Tears fell freely as his senses came back when he examined his scraped up arms.  

“What're you doing, idiot,  _ idiot?!”  _ Michael whispered to himself, frantically pulling himself to his feet and running his arms under the faucet.  He washed all the blood away and messily laid toilet paper over the small cuts to prevent further bleeding.  

What if someone saw?  Michael's lip quivered again, thinking of how his ma’s face would fall at the sight of his self inflicted wounds.  He could see her heart breaking and it only further twisted the knife in his heart.  

What if  _ Jeremy  _ saw?  Michael choked back a half sob, half laugh.  He wouldn't do anything; he wouldn't even be bothered enough to  _ see  _ anything.  Jeremy was probably off rolling on some drug or another, hot chicks attached to his hips.  Michael was the last thing on his mind.

Peeling the toilet paper off after Michael had assumed the small wounds had clotted, he threw it out and took a hesitant step towards the door.

The life of the party raged on the other side, completely oblivious to Michael and his problems.  He didn't want to face the crowd, especially not like this.  His face was red and puffy, tear streaks down his cheeks and his eyes were still watery.  

But, he knew no one would notice.  Even if someone did, they would be too drunk or high to remember anyway.  

Turning the knob, Michael took a step out into the hallway, his heart and head pounding.  Even though the second story of the house was less crowded, people still pushed Michael around, carelessly knocking him to the side.  Michael didn't try to stop them; he numbly went wherever he was shoved, slowly making his way to the staircase.  

He just wanted to be home.  He just wanted to be home with can of Coke at his side and controller in his lap where everything was warm and safe.  He just wanted to be home with Jeremy, back to how things were before he got the squip and became too cool for Michael.  

Michael managed to stumble down the stairs without incident, although someone did brush against his arm, causing him to flinch and recoil.  He hoped that when his arm healed, there would be no scars, no reminders of this night.

He could see the door past teenagers grinding on each other and smoking joints.  He was almost free.

“Michael?” 

_ Shit. _

Michael froze.  He knew Jeremy was behind him but he couldn't bring himself to turn around.  He pushed by a couple, continuing towards the door.

“Hey, where are you—” Jeremy grabbed Michael's arm, “—where are you going?”  Michael flinched, trying to pull back his arm.  Jeremy held on, looking down to see the little red marks in his skin.

“Jeremy, I—,” Michael started, his voice barely audible above the roar of the party.  

“Michael…”  Jeremy watched him with wide eyes, searching his face for some sort of explanation.  He didn't know what to say.  The squip helped him find his voice:

“You're pathetic.”  Jeremy dropped Michael's arm.  

“Jeremy?” Michael's lip quivered as he held back more tears. Despite keeping his eyes only on Jeremy, he  _ knew  _ everyone watching what was happening.  He _ knew  _ they were sneering and mocking the crybaby.  He could hear them now: who invited this loser?

“Are you  _ crying _ ?” he laughed.  People started laughing with him.  Michael could feel the room closing in on him.  

Jeremy wanted to scream.  He wanted to kick and fight but the squip was holding him back.  He was  _ powerless _ : left to watch someone else's words flow from his lips; left to watch himself single handedly break his best friend's heart.

“Fuck you, Jeremy,” Michael mumbled, rubbing his eyes to try and stop his tears.  He debated throwing a punch, wiping that  _ stupid fucking grin  _ off of Jeremy's face but he couldn't bring himself to that.  Plus, he didn't want to leave the party even more damaged than he knew he was.

Jeremy responded with another laugh, turning to the kid next to him to murmur something Michael couldn't hear.  They both snickered, looking directly at him.

Michael couldn't take it anymore.  Turning to the door, he ran out of the house, boys jeering at him from all sides, girls quietly pointing and whispering among themselves, looking at Michael with pity.

The cold air of the night hit Michael harshly as he stumbled to where he had parked his car.  There were a few kids lingering on the front lawn, but no one gave him any trouble.  

Michael climbed into the driver's seat and struggled with the seat belt that locked when he tugged on it before finally giving up.  Resting his forehead against the steering wheel, a loud sob forced it's way out of Michael's chest and he finally allowed himself to cry unrestrained, his loud sobs and whimpers filling the car until his throat went raw and his eyes swelled shut.  

Finally, after a long while, Michael started up the car.  He knew he shouldn't be driving— it was late and the roads were dark already, not to mention his head pounded from crying so much and he could barely see through his watery, puffy eyes— but he didn't care.  

Maybe, if he were lucky, he'd accidentally crash the car— no one was left to care about him if he disappeared, anyway.

**Author's Note:**

> this doesn't feel,,, good? idk it doesn't seem structured well enough


End file.
